| Aran Ward Sell | Blog & Writing |

Nothing Rhymes with “Boomerang”…

On Sunday, as mentioned so often that you probably feel like my personal secretary by now, I went to Stradbroke Island, off the east coast of Queensland. It was pretty amazing …but at the same time, I’m always wary about my lack of finesse when it comes to travel-bloggery. So I’m going to try something a little, well, sillier.

Did you guys know that this year marks the 90th anniversary of Rupert the Bear? No? Well, nor did I until I Wikipediad it just now. But in commemoration of that little cartoon bear and his little cartoon friends*, today’s blog will be in rhyme. With pictures.

Our party assembled, as coach parties must,
Excited to be on our way.
The sun took a break
From its habits of late…

…and gave us a sunshiney day.

Like elves out of Tolkein, we sailed to the East,
‘Cross the waters of Moreton Bay.
But it would have been silly
To end up in Chile…
…Good job this island got in the way.

Once across, we alighted, and were all quite delighted,
To be given boomerangs to paint.
And though I spent quite a time
Painting white dots on mine…
…I’ll admit that Picasso, it ain’t.

Then, boomerangs painted (and inexpertly thrown),
We found it was time to be gone.
So our tour guide and us
Got back onto the bus
To learn more ‘bout the isle we were on.

picture broadly speaking irrelevant

(The blue-ringed octopus, and the cone shell
Two of the very worst venoms there are
Could be found in this place,
Along with both sharks and snakes…
Every small sting made me quite alarmed)

Then as the sun in the firmament crested its rise,
And the blue in the sea matched the blue of the skies
We came at last to the coast,
Met by one of the most
Spectacular vistas to yet grace my eyes.
Whales and dolphins were glimpsed in the sea
And the ocean’s magnificence was almost absurd.
So I’ll leave you with pictures
And bid you adieu–
Some sights are too scenic for words.

* Surely one of the most charmless ursine children’s characters ever. Give me Paddington any day. Or Yogi.

Who would have thought that Rupert Bear could have reached ninety and been remembered,
rather than having his chequered trousers discontinued, being hung by his own scarf and then, carefully, ritually, dismembered.
But on the bright side is the consequence unintended of a rhyming blog from the South Pacific,
with pictures of its vanishing blueness and stretching vastness. Rupert’s trousers, poetically cathartic.